A Blogovella by Ezzie Dryar (Anne Martin)

Posts tagged “rant

21. I want it back!


I went from having a weird semi-writer’s block last week to having a complete full-blown lack of inspiration.  Did you notice the complete stop (not to mention the period) at the end of that sentence?  I was hoping that writing about it would free me up, but so far that hasn’t happened.  That it started when I joined The Black Seals is pure coincidence, I hope.  I haven’t really posted anything new there, since I was hoping I’d concentrate on my novels once that area is set up.  There again, please was meant to be posted there, but I decided to duplicate post both there and here, just so I could get some more reviews.  Nobody has reviewed it there yet – sometimes I wonder if people are afraid to review me because I’ve started getting a little more brutal with the reviews I give – all well meaning and nice, but I’ve just become a little less tolerant of poor work.  It’s partly to do with the fact that I’ve become disappointed with the quality of the reviews here, and decided to start bringing up the level on my own.  Not a single person has noticed that the poem was a chain of haiku!  There are a lot of kiddies around here now, and I’m not going to stoop to their level.  This is an adult site, so I’m going to treat everyone like an adult.

So this has become a fucking rant.  I don’t like swearing, but sometimes that’s what it takes.  (I also wanted this to fall distinctly into adult writing.  Gotta have the obligatory fuck.  It’s all the rage now.)

Sometimes it takes talking about sex.  (You knew that was coming, didn’t you?)  I was poking around Flickr for some avatar pictures for future work and possibly some inspiration.  I thought maybe it was time to find some artistic male bodies.  I was so disappointed.  Everyone thinks that all we want are muscles and maybe a peek at genital hair. Well, I’m not into muscle, frankly.  (I guess that might explain why most of the avatars I post are women.  They are meant to represent my main character, which is often some vestige of me.)  I’ve decided that I like light, shade, character, and innuendo.  Rarely do male nude portraits have any of that.  They are all about showing his body.  I want to know what is inside, to see character in his eyes, to feel his heart, to touch his soul.  So many of them cut off him off at his nose.  There is character elsewhere, but I wouldn’t expect to find any in his six-pack.

Where does that leave me?  Back where I started, looking for character, for inspiration, for hope – hope that I’ll kick this funk.

Maybe I should blame it on my bee-sting.  Last week, I got stung while I was running.  I had to stop for a barking Scoobie-Doo who had taken far too much interest in me for my safety.  Moments after his owner had him under control, I felt a sharp pain in my shin.  I assume that it was a bee.  If it had been an adder, there would have been fang marks, and I’d probably be in the hospital now.  (Yes, there are adders in the wood in which I run.)  Anyway, by the time I finished my run (4 miles later), it had swollen, and I was getting pins-and-needles type pain all over my shin.  I kept an eye on it for the next 2 days before it was back to normal.

I guess I’m normal now – for me at least – except that the bee has sucked my soul out of me.  I want it back.

(reprinted from WritersCafe.org from 2008)


18. Lapdancing

untitle [#180] (2004) by Hellen van Meene

The things that swirl around in my head – lap-dancing, today – I wouldn’t be your ordinary erotic dancer, four-inch heels would have me gasping for air in the stratosphere, and you’d be staring at my kneecaps as I strutted around you in your chair, a standard desk chair, it swivels like my hips, and has no arms – they’d get in the way – so as I strut, I trace my fingertips along your shoulder-blades, maybe they are a little cold today, like the weather, and my nails don’t dig because I keep them short, but I’ve painted them glittery burgundy in your honor, along with my toenails – yes, I’m barefoot – I’m told I’m good with them, maybe you’ll find out someday, but not today, as I pass around behind you; my fingers, they’ve found your top button and I couldn’t resist, two, three, and my hand is down your shirt – it’s getting warmer now – like my breasts that dangle tantalizingly close to the back of your head, brushing against your hair – do you feel me, I certainly feel you and give your chest a playful squeeze – alright, both hands, and now you can definitely feel my two pillows caressing your neck

what am I wearing you ask, not much, but as I said, I’m not your ordinary lap dancer, and my bra selection is limited mostly to running wear, since I spend so much time pounding the pavement, but a sports bra makes me nice and firm, nothing to bounce around, and bikini briefs – no thongs in my wardrobe – and have you noticed that I almost always wear dark colors underneath, burgundy today to match my nails and my hair, which I had done this morning – I’d indulge you with it, but it’s too short for anything particularly sensual now – oops – I’ve accidentally untucked your shirt, and unbuttoned it – sometimes I’m just on autopilot – I strut around in front of you; do you like my nice firm tummy, it pulses for your delectation, but maybe you don’t notice, since you are nuzzling between my breasts,

take a nice sniff, no artificial scents on me, I’m allergic to them, just normal body smells, sweat, pheromones, yes, I’m hot with them today – I thought about doing a striptease for you, but there is no teasing here, I’m serious, pulsing with the music – OK, maybe the bra can come off, I find them too confining, so off it goes and around your head – there, we bounce a little, just for you – and what do lap-dancers do – yes, I’m so there pulsing up against you, with you between my legs – I lower myself onto you – I need this as much as you do – there is so little fabric between us, and I can feel you pulsing with me as the music speeds up – have you ever had a belly-dancer on your lap – every muscle finely controlled for your visual enjoyment, but how about up against you for your tactile pleasure, jiggling my pillows in your face as my firm lithe body throbs around you ever quicker, firm – yes, we both are (snickers) – and I course my fingers through your hair because I’m getting carried away, I have a runner’s endurance and could go all night if you wanted me to, but maybe now’s the time for you to stick your tenner in my – well, the bra is gone, so I guess it will have to go in my panties, right there in front – go for it – I don’t mind it getting a little damp, not if it is earned through my pleasure and perhaps yours – put it in nice and deep, so it won’t fall out – yes, right there – no I won’t stop, not till I’m damn well ready, and I won’t mind if you put your arms around me, just don’t get any ideas – this is a business transaction – another tenner? – fifty and it’s a deal, go ahead, slip it in, nice and, ahhhhh, deep

5. Realism


OK.  I’ve given up on those rules.  Too many people says it’s hard to read.  It’s supposed to be, but I’ll give in – at least in this one…

I hate the holiday season.  It’s the travelling and the family part.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love my family, but they just don’t understand me, even my sister, J.  None of them can believe that I live in the UK permanently.  For them, it’s just this 16-year holiday, while I sow my wild oats.  Every time I come home for a visit (that’s where I am now), they ask when I’m coming back.  My parents are getting up there and my siblings resent that I’m not around to help out.  They (my parents) are still upright and compos mentis, perhaps even more than I am.  They get around and about, and although both have had health scares in the past few years, neither is likely to live to an age where they become feeble and need care.  That’s just the way it is in our family.  No one has made it to 80 in several generations.  My father is the oldest of his generation, and the only one still living.  Maybe I’m a pessimist, but he’s a realist.  He’s been preparing to die for over a decade, and he’s constantly making certain that all their affairs are in order.  They’ve even bought the plot.  I don’t do graves – I hate cemetaries.  I’d rather take a fast track to dust, myself, cremation.

The worst thing about the big family gathering is that all these feelings come back, like I’ve never left, and soon I’ll be wishing I never came back.  J is starting to understand me better, but none of them really understand what I do for a living, and why I’m living in a foreign country.  They also don’t understand why I’m not married, or why I split with my ex.  Technically, if I shack up with someone else, it’s adultery.  Frankly, I thought shacking up with my husband akin to adultery.  It was over almost immediately after it began – he was never the love of my life, unfortunately, and I think he sensed that.  He was fighting a losing battle and gravitated towards someone who didn’t have my hangups.  He was right, the bastard, but that was a long time ago.  It will come up again – probably on Christmas Eve.  That seems to be the usual pattern.  At least, I didn’t have to bring work with me this year.  They love using that for their attacks.

Time for some retail therapy.

(Just a reminder: this is a reprint from 2008, but very little has changed)